


Echoes From the Past

by alcimines



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcimines/pseuds/alcimines
Summary: Some ancestors of the modern day X-Men characters were in London during the 11th century.
Relationships: Jean Grey/Logan (X-Men)
Kudos: 7





	Echoes From the Past

ECHOS FROM THE PAST

"Folkbern! Dammit, Folkbern! Wake up you heathen bastard!"

Folkbern Logan blearily opened one of his eyes and glared at the young soldier who was pestering him. It had been a long night in the local tavern - a most unwholesome place. Consequently, Folkbern had a horrible hangover.

"What the fuck do you want, Harold?" Folkbern growled as he awkwardly sat-up and then swung his legs over the edge of his ragged cot. He was still fully dressed in a blue-and-white tabard over chain armor. He'd fallen asleep in it. His boots were still on his feet. His helmet and spear, on the other hand, were on the floor next to his cot.

Harold sighed. "We have a problem."

Folkbern belched loudly. Harold flinched away from the stench.

"God's blood," Harold prayed sincerely as he backed away.

Folkbern glared at Harold as he slowly clambered to his feet. "What kind of problem?" Folkbern asked.

"Smugglers," Harold replied. "They were dropping their cargo off just up the river, but tried to run for it when a foot patrol spotted them. Then the silly bastards piled into another ship. Both ships are wrecked but some fishermen picked up the crews and cargos."

Folkbern picked up his helm and spear and then walked past Harold and out into the pitiless daylight.

"Shit," Folkbern muttered, trying to blink his now watering eyes back into focus. "This isn't our damn problem," Folkbern said irritably. "Tell the dock-master to do his job."

Harold sighed. "The smugglers were carrying contraband - livestock. So the salvage from their ship is now royal property."

"Still the dock-master's problem."

Harold shrugged. "He's a light-fingered fool. And if he or one of his people steals something, it will be on us."

Folkbern grunted. They would have to secure the animals until a proper taxman showed up. Folkbern hoped that nobody was getting sticky fingers. Stealing from the King was a capital offense that warranted a suitably grotesque punishment. And Folkbern preferred being a soldier, not an executioner.

"What kind of stock was the ship carrying?" Folkbern asked. Then he dunked his helmet into a rain-barrel and up-ended it over his head.

"Slaves," Harold replied as Folkbern sputtered, shook his head, and sent water spraying.

"Let's take a look," Folkbern said evenly.

* * *

Folkbern Logan was a short and broad man with a lot of very dark hair and the eyes of a hardened soldier. It was said that he was the last pagan in London, which was unlikely but many still believed it.

And everyone agreed that he'd been a good soldier before... before... the Thing happened.

'The Thing' was what the locals called last year's demonic raid. Dozens of soldiers and civilians had died as ancient powers stalked the London docks. Folkbern was one of the few to survive and some said that was because Thor himself had arrived to save him. The priests of London became notably pissed whenever anyone made the mistake of speaking about the Thing within their earshot, so most people kept their mouths shut. Yet many still whispered that it was the truth.

Whatever happened, it left Folkbern with a perhaps too-strong taste for drink - and consequently not really the man he once was. But the respect many felt for who he'd once been kept Folkbern in the King's service. It was widely assumed that Folkbern would drink himself to death in a few years but until then he would be tolerated as long as he showed up for muster and could still carry a spear. He was even allowed to keep his minimal rank and a talented youngster - Harold - had been tasked with keeping an eye on him and make sure he didn't screw up.

However, much to everyone's surprise, it turned out that Folkbern was surprisingly good at his job even as he sank deeper and deeper into his cups.

As always, Folkbern survived.

* * *

"Moors?" Folkbern said slowly. The slaves, clustered miserably on a side-dock and guarded by a pair of bored-looking soldiers, were certainly a dark-skinned lot. Folkbern had seen black people before - mostly sailors - but he'd never seen so many in one place.

"No, they're obviously from Norrmannaland," Harold said with a roll of his eyes.

Not for the first time, Folkbern considered knocking Harold's teeth out. But Folkbern knew that Harold was actually protecting him, so he restrained himself.

"How did so many Moors end up on a London dock?" Folkbern growled.

Harold looked exasperated. "I'm guessing somebody pirated a cargo of them down around Espana and decided to sell them at some distance from the crime. And the 'how' is a lot less of a problem than 'now what?'."

Another guard wandered over to Folkbern and Harold, grounded the butt of his spear, leaned on it, and then said, "It's gotten worse."

"What?" Folkbern gritted out. He didn't really want another problem at the moment.

"I hear that one of the dock-masters met the boat carrying the slaves. He picked out a pretty one for himself. Then he got in a row with the fisherman captain about it and had the fisherman beaten. Everyone's talking about it."

Harold snorted in disgust. Folkbern stared at the the soldier.

"Doesn't that idiot know what kind of trouble he's making for himself?" Folkbern asked in amazement.

"How sure are you about that story?" Harold interrupted.

"Red Annie told me," the guard replied with a shrug.

"Who?" Harold asked in obvious confusion.

"A maid and tavern girl," Folkbern said after giving Harold a disgusted glance. "She's honest and smart and how long do you plan on being here without knowing the local folk?"

Harold gritted his teeth and fell silent. As much as he hated to admit it, Folkbern had a point.

"That dock-master - it was Oswald, right?" Folkbern asked the guard. There were several dock-masters and all of them were crooked to one extent or another. But Oswald was notably both corrupt enough and stupid enough for what Folkbern was hearing.

The guard nodded. "Yessir."

Loganbern turned on his heel and began walking away from the dock. After a surprised moment, Harold scrambled after him.

* * *

"What the hell do you..." Oswald began after he opened the door to his hut. Oswald had the sleazy look about him of a man who'd long ago settled comfortably into using his petty position for theft and corruption.

However, he also looked a little worse for wear. There were nail scratches up and down Oswald's face, he had a split lip, and his nose was bleeding.

Oswald didn't get a chance to finish his words before Folkbern slammed a fist deep into his gut and then grabbed him by the hair. After that, Folkbern slammed Oswald's head against the door-frame. Folkbern kept that up and Harold winced as Oswald's skull began describing a simple beat.

"You," Folkbern growled.

SLAM!

"Stupid."

SLAM!

"Bastard!"

SLAM!

After that, Folkbern let go of Oswald, who collapsed to his knees.

"Dock-master Oswald," Harold said very precisely. "You are guilty of theft from the King. And you did it in a public manner, with many witnesses - you silly piece of shit."

Oswald tried to focus, "I... buh... I... didn't... She... was pretty... I knew that might be trouble. So... so I brought her to my place to... to make sure she didn't get stolen by someone."

Folkbern considered what Oswald had said. "Not bad," he announced critically. "It might work, but that's for someone else to decide. Where's the girl?"

Oswald waved a hand indicating deeper into his hut. Folkbern made an effort to kick Oswald's balls up into his throat and then stalked inside.

Harold carefully stepped over the writhing and heaving body of Oswald and followed Folkbern.

The woman was naked and had amazing curves. And unlike any of the other very few Moors that Folkbern and Harold had seen, she had piercing blue eyes that contrasted massively with her black hair and skin.

Harold let out a low whistle of appreciation. Folkbern just looked irritated. The woman looked back at them, making no effort to cover herself, with her hands balled into fists.

"Not a mark on her," Harold observed with a chuckle. "Looks like Oswald wasn't man enough to handle her."

"Get dressed," Folkbern ordered. And, of course, there was no way the woman could understand what he'd just said. So she just stood there and continued to warily watch the two newcomers. The short and hairy one was looking right at her with a worrisome intensity. The yellow-haired boy seemed mostly to be focused on her bare breasts. She was pretty sure she would be able to handle the younger of the two if he tried to force her. But the old, short, and hairy bastard looked like an entirely different story.

Folkbern leaned over, picked up a torn rag from the floor, and tossed it in the woman's direction. She caught it in midair and scrambled into it.

* * *

It turned out that the King's taxman was jackass. Admittedly, that did tend to come with the job.

The slaves were enjoying a simple meal of bread and cheese. The food was being handed out by Red Annie and some other tavern girls. Folkbern was pretty neutral on the subject of Christianity - it seemed to him that it talked a good game, but didn't always live up to its words. The whimsical deeds of the old spirits, based on capricious power and primal desires, were easier for a man like him to understand. On the other hand, Annie was one of several Christians Folkbern knew who took her beliefs seriously. He respected them for that.

The taxman gave Folkbern a supercilious look. "You have exceeded your authority by feeding this lot. You will not be compensated for it."

Red Annie snorted. "I did it, not him. And I didn'ae ask for anyone's coin, you silly man."

It was widely held that Red Annie had been granted a flag of red hair by God (or the gods) as a warning not to anger her.

Folkbern gave Annie a hard look, "You have a big mouth. Doesn't that book of yours say something about not speaking out of turn?"

Annie considered that before answering, "Nay, I doon't think so - except when talking to your parents a'course. And besides, you've neva complained afore aboot all the things my mouth can do! In fact, you seemed happy aboot it!"

"I want this slut whipped," the taxman said bleakly. "I am on royal business and I won't be mocked."

One of the guards standing behind Folkbern and Harold gave the taxman a frantic series of hand-gestures that signified, "No. Stop. Don't do that." He froze instantly when Folkbern glanced back over his shoulder at him.

The damned Folkbern always seemed to know what was going on around him.

"I'll get right on it," Folkbern said dryly to the taxman as he refocused his attention back on the bureaucrat.

"What kinda whipping?" Annie asked with interest as she looked Folkbern over. "Ah laiked that spank'n you gave me that one time. Hoo! That made me right randy!"

Harold sighed, leaned over, and put a hand over Annie's mouth. "Stop stirring the pot," he told her.

Annie bit Harold's hand, but not too hard. Harold pulled away with a curse, but Annie did shut-up.

"We have to get these people back on a boat and out of here," Folkbern told the taxman.

"What?!" the taxman snarled. "Why?"

Folkbern let out a long breath and made no effort to hide the look of disgust he gave the taxman.

"You want to explain how you brought plague to the city?" Folkbern finally asked. "I'll be happy to explain the details to the Captain of the Watch. And he'll want to explain it to the King."

There was a long and frozen silence.

* * *

That part of the docks were abandoned. Almost everyone had fled. The word 'plague' tends to motivate people.

A boat long ago interned by the harbor-master - ancient, creaky, but at least somewhat serviceable - was being minimally fitted out with worn sails. Some water and hardtack, mostly donated by other ships, had been piled on the dock. A few of the ex-slaves who apparently knew how to sail were professionally fitting the vessel out. They seemed to be growing steadily more comfortable with their new home.

"We'll escort her out of our waters," a tough old sea-dog said to Folkbern. His ship - not quite a warship, but definitely not a merchantman - was at a nearby dock. The panicking taxman had invoked his authority to force the captain to cooperate, delegated similar authority to Folkbern, and then sprinted for the hills.

Then the captain gave Folkbern a long look. "Should I sink her once she's over the horizon?"

Folkbern looked at the sea-captain, "If they want to get back to Afric, they'll have to stop in Espana, won't they?"

The captain smiled. Iberian pirates had been tormenting the local seas for decades.

* * *

Folkbern had long ago noticed that Annie seemed to have a talent for languages. He assumed it was because she'd spent so many years serving drinks to sailors.

And that was part of it.

Annie and the blue-eyed Moorish woman were haltingly trading words in what sounded a bit like the Arab tongue, but really wasn't.

"She says 'thank you'," Annie told Folkbern.

Folkbern glanced at the Moorish woman but then looked away. There was something about those eyes...

Then Folkbern made an uneasy shrug. "When she and her people are drowning after their ship falls apart in a gale, she may end up cursing me with her last breath."

Annie and the blue-eyed woman exchanged more words. The blue-eyed woman was smiling slightly. Annie frowned.

"What?" Folkbern asked.

Annie hesitated - and then shrugged. "She's not worried about storms. She says she knows incantations."

Folkbern just shook his head. He hoped the blue-eyed woman was right.

* * *

Side by side, Folkbern and Harold watched the two ships as they tacked down the Thames. The blue-eyed woman was standing in the aft of her vessel, looking back at them. A pair of sailors unfurled a length of sail behind the woman. And for a brief moment, she looked like she had a bright, wind-blown, banner of white hair.

The woman waved at them and then turned around and walked towards the fore of the boat.

"I didn't see any signs of disease," Harold told Folkbern hesitantly.

Folkbern looked sternly at Harold. "I did. And when you write your words to the Captain, you'll put that in them."

Folkbern couldn't write. He - and all of the docks guardsmen - depended on Harold for such things.

"But I..." Harold began.

Folkbern interrupted. "We'd be stuck talking to our betters for weeks if those people stayed here. Whenever property changes hands, taxes are reaped, or wealth taken, the powerful want all the details - as long as the details are in their favor. But there's no profit to owning a plague-ridden slave, so we're getting off easy."

Harold gave Folkbern a long look. Then he nodded his head. "Yes, of course. You're right. There was disease. It was best to move those people along. But..."

Folkbern cocked an eye at Harold. The boy was still hesitating.

"But how did you know we wouldn't be ordered to just kill them all?" Harold asked softly.

Folkbern grimaced. "You ever kill people, Harold? Not enemies. Not soldiers. But just people?"

Harold shook his head.

"I've done just that," Folkbern finished bleakly. "And so has the Captain of London. In fact, we did it together when we served together up north. T'was orders, you see. The worst kind of orders."

Harold said nothing. He'd heard the stories. The younger soldiers whispered them to each other - and never repeated the stories when the older soldiers could overhear.

"The Captain is a hard man, Harold, but I know him. There are things he'll avoid if he can."

Harold still had nothing to say.

"If he can," Folkbern repeated softly, his eyes suddenly distant.

Then Folkbern's eyes cleared as he looked back at Harold.

"Ever wonder why I'm true to the old ways, Harold?"

Harold shook his head.

"You Christians have that thing you call 'Hell'. And if I keep to the ways of my fathers, maybe it won't be waiting for me when I die."

Harold slowly nodded in understanding.

* * *

Some people began drifting back to the docks as day-to-day business was slowly re-established. The Captain of London sent a runner asking for an explanation and got one. If there were any suspicions on his part that he wasn't getting completely honest answers, he never put voice to them.

After sunset, Folkbern got off duty, purchased a cheap skin of poor-quality wine, and headed home

Red Annie was waiting for him. She'd quite calmly broken in and made herself at home. In fact, she'd found a small wooden tub somewhere and had dragged it in with her. Then she heated some water. She was naked, sitting on a stool, and bathing herself when Folkbern walked inside. It was an arresting sight.

"Put that wine away," she ordered casually. "And get outta yer clothes. You stink and need bathing."

Folkbern was surprised, but he knew that it was a bad idea to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

Annie knew her way around armor-straps - no surprise that - and help Folkbern out of this chain-mail. Then she yanked off Folkbern's woolen under-padding.

"How long can I stay?" she asked after she picked up a brush and began scrubbing Folkbern's hide.

Folkbern scratched his wet chin as he considered her question. "How about until the day you and our children bury me?" he eventually answered.

Annie smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> [Folkbern Logan is actually a canon Marvel character. He showed up in the old 'Uncanny Avengers' book as part of a plot by Apocalypse to kill the ancestors of the Avengers. And, yes, for his own reasons a young and brash 11th century Thor intervened to stop Apocalypse and his Horsemen on their mission.
> 
> Harold, Red Annie, and the African woman who's name we never learned - although I can make a guess as to what it might be - are creations of my own.
> 
> The use of the term 'Moor' is intrinsically sloppy since it was apparently used by Europeans to mean either 'people descended from the Berber tribes of North Africa' or 'anyone with dark-skin who lives south of us'. I have no idea how they would have described people from sub-Saharan Africa. Given our modern hysteria over race, I decided not to wander too deep into a potential morass.
> 
> Yes, this story obviously has some things in common with my 'Wolverine's World' stories but I hope that won't bother anyone who reads it.
> 
> So are their people in the 21st century Marvel universe who are descended from the joining of Logan Folkbern and Red Annie? I kind of doubt it since it seems to me they would have been noticed. If nothing else, it seems to me that Mr. Sinister would have been interested.]


End file.
